


Twelve Scenes for Two Voices

by yoko_tsuno



Category: 20th Century CE RPF, Classical Music RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8737357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoko_tsuno/pseuds/yoko_tsuno
Summary: Just some Schoenberg/Webern slash.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The following story might be more chaste and more experimental than you would hope, but someone had to break the long silence of this fandom. Content warnings for period-typical anti-semitism and anti-homosexuality (including the presence of Nazism). Major Character Death, too (it felt odd to put that at the top since it’s a RPF).
> 
> Translations, including those of the Hildegard Jone poems, are my own. Chronology is historically accurate to the best of my ability. My most-consulted sources for this story were Malcolm MacDonald’s 2008 “Schoenberg” and Bojan Bujic’s 2011 “Arnold Schoenberg.” I also made use of a wide range of primary sources which I neglected to bibliographize. I’m sure the incomplete bibliography is the only aspect of this story which scholars of the Second Viennese School will regard as being in poor taste. Enjoy.

  
**1\. September 15, 1945.**  
  
The night is almost cold and almost silent. White snow sits on the peaks above the town, but at this hour the mountains are only vast dark shapes in the mist. A dog barks somewhere, then it waits, then it barks again.  
  
Anton steps out from the crowded, choking air of the house, out into the clear mountain air of Mittersill. Across the street, a rotund man, eyes downcast, enters his home, watched by a pair of American soldiers walking past. When the man's door shuts, the soldiers resume their animated conversation as they walk out of sight.  
  
Anton stands in the barren yard and takes out his cigar. Back in the house, soldiers are questioning Benno about his supply of banned goods. They are likely to confiscate every cigar but this one. Anton lights it and watches the burning end. Dim light comes from a few windows down the street, but the moon and stars are gone and darkness is inevitable.  
  
Something jostles Anton. It is a soldier coming from somewhere in the yard. His silhouette has already stiffened, taken three steps backward, and drawn a pistol.  
  
"Who goes there?" says the soldier. Anton does not respond. "Don't you know the time? It's nearly curfew." The soldier's voice is shaking. Anton is staring off into the dark.  
  
"I'm warning you!" says the soldier. The gun is raised and cocked. The Americans are unsure how deep Benno's operation goes, and so every shadow here is a threat. And this soldier has always been afraid of shadows. The gun is shaking. The dog barks again. A gust of wind picks up dead leaves and the soldier shudders with the chill.  
  
Anton taps the cigar with a finger. No one can see him form the beginning of a smile. He starts to reach into his pocket and starts to turn toward the soldier.  
  
After the gunshot, there is only silence.  
  
  
  
**2\. 1933.**  
  
Anton barges breathlessly into the office and Arnold looks up in surprise from his packing. "Anton! But you're in Vienna! What did you come all this way for?"  
  
"So it's true," says Anton. "You're leaving your post."  
  
"Hardly by choice," says Arnold. "Herr von Schillings and Herr Graener have pledged to end the 'Jewish stranglehold on Western music', starting with the Prussian Academy and ending who knows where." Arnold returns to leafing through sheaves of manuscript paper, occasionally throwing one into an open briefcase.  "You've arrived just in time. I leave for Paris tomorrow."  
  
"When do you plan to return?"  
  
Arnold laughs bitterly. "When Hindenburg gets up from his deathbed long enough to dismiss Hitler from office? When Hitler decides that Jewish degenerate art isn't so bad after all? I don't expect to be returning to Berlin particularly soon."  
  
"It can't be all that bad," says Anton.  
  
"It can," shouts Arnold, his temper flaring up. "Are you blind? A fool could see what’s happening after five minutes in the train station.”  
  
"But you have a stable position," says Anton, speaking quickly and, he hopes, soothingly. "They can't simply fire you. Besides, you're the greatest composer of this age. And the greatest teacher, as I should know. Not to mention the best beacon of hope for the advancement of German music."  
  
"Anton, I am a Jew," says Arnold, venom in his voice.  
  
"You're a Lutheran," corrects Anton. "What does your heritage matter?"  
  
"For such a lover of Hitler, you know awfully little about what he stands for," growls Arnold.  
  
"I couldn't care less about Hitler or what he stands for, I simply meant - "  
  
"Besides," interrupts Arnold, "I am no Lutheran. I have returned to the faith of my fathers. And fuck the Nazis if they don't like it."  
  
Anton doesn't know what to say. These matters have never interested him. He adjusts his glasses. "Very well," he says. "But at least come back to Vienna instead of Paris."  
  
“So you are even more ignorant than I thought. You think Austria is safe once Hitler takes power?”  
  
"I don't see how that lightweight could be any worse than Dollfuss. But why should politics have anything to do with it in the first place? We need you in Vienna. German music needs you." Anton looks down. "I need you."  
  
Arnold sighs. "We're both too old for talk like that. And speaking of… such things, you must have noticed that it's not just the Jews who are in danger now. If your past ever became known, you would be thrown into the same situation as me."  
  
"I can't see that happening," says Anton. "Everyone knows about Röhm's tastes, and even I know how important he is to the Nazis. Come to Vienna. You'll have a hero's welcome. From the people who matter, at least.”  
  
"No," says Arnold. "I'm going to Paris." He shuts the briefcase and carries it to the door. "Anton," he says, "I hope that one day you'll understand something other than music."  
  
"Arnold," says Anton.  
  
"What?" Arnold turns, annoyed.  
  
Anton feels suddenly that the piece has reached its climactic point far too early. He is surprised by his own confidence as he speaks. ”If your fears come true and the Nazis do come to Austria… I will make sure little Görgi is safe."  
  
Arnold is quiet for a long time. His eyes flit to the floor. Finally, he says "Thank you," his voice softer than Anton has ever heard it. And then he is back to his usual self, hands busy with energetic gestures, an ironic smile on his face. "I'll send you my new address in Paris, or in America as the case may be. I've begun a new quartet, and it won't be any good until you've torn it apart. The idea is to write in the old style of Handel, but without his defects."  
  
"It strikes me that a string quartet is too bare of a setting to expose the old buffoon's indulgences," says Anton, glad for the change of subject. "A _concerto grosso_ instrumentation would offer you more opportunity for expression through formal manipulation, I think."  
  
Arnold laughs. His eyes are shining, whether with mirth or sadness Anton cannot tell. "You're right, of course," he says, clapping Anton on the shoulder. Anton has never been prone to smiling, especially these days, but he finds himself grinning back. "I must go now, but I'll write to you soon," says Arnold. "Farewell." And he is gone, before his former student, his former friend, can say another word. Anton is left alone in the cramped Berlin office.  
  
  
  
**3\. 1906.**  
  
"I've been thinking about what Herr Mahler said - about how all the structures of nature are derived from a single germinal cause. And how thus in a piece of music everything must develop from a single motive that implies all that is yet to come. It's such an obvious idea, such a true idea, that I'm surprised I hadn't thought of it before myself. And now I can see it everywhere, both in nature and in music."  
  
"Anton, you need to relax," says Arnold. "It's a beautiful day. Why spoil it by talking about music?"  
  
"You've said many times that nothing could ever be more important than music."  
  
"Yes, well… I must have been right, because“ - Arnold raises his palms toward the trees and the sun with mock solemnity - “the music of God surrounds us.” He smiles sardonically. "But we don't really need to talk about motivic unity and such things today, do we?"  
  
"I suppose not," says Anton. "How is your new son?"  
  
"Little Görgi is bawling away quite healthily."  
  
“My congratulations again."  
  
Arnold nods. "Thank you. In contrast, since he was born, Mathilde has been… well, reserved. It's probably nothing, but I hope it's not an early sign of hysteria. You're lucky that you need never deal with a woman."  
  
"What do you mean?" says Anton.  
  
Arnold smiles wryly. "Frau Doktor Schwarzwald isn't as much of a gossip as a woman of her position should be. Still, she let slip that in matters of the heart, you tend more toward the Uranian than the… I don't know the corresponding term for ordinary people. Anyway, it's lucky for you."  
  
"I still don't see what you're talking about," says Anton, wary.  
  
"Come on, you can relax with me," says Arnold. He throws an arm around Anton's shoulder. "I won't bite."  
  
At Arnold's touch, Anton's heart beats faster and his senses sharpen. But he wriggles away. “This is early in the day for you to be drunk.“  
  
"Can one ever truly be drunk?" muses Arnold, and laughs. "You're avoiding the question."  
  
"You didn't ask me a question."  
  
"I just wanted to know more about these strange dalliances of yours. When did they take place? and why? and how?"  
  
"I don't want to talk about this, Arnold," says Anton.  
  
"I expected as much," says Arnold. "I've learned I can never expect you to talk about anything approaching a personal matter. But nonetheless, I have seen the turmoil roiling in your heart." He pokes Anton in the chest and staggers. "I don't know if I can honestly call myself your teacher any longer, Anton, no matter how many counterpoint exercises I give you. But I'll consider the whole thing a success if I can convince you to reveal some of those feelings of yours in music. I know that words would be too much to ask."  
  
"That's unfair," says Anton. "I've always been open with you."  
  
“Not entirely open, if Frau Doktor is to be believed, and she always is.”  
  
"Why are you so interested in this?"  
  
"I'm just interested, that's all."  
  
Anton coughs nervously. "So what's the matter with Mathilde, exactly?"  
  
For a moment, anger sweeps over Arnold's face. "That's none of your business." The sarcastic smile returns as quickly as it left. "Yes, I know, no need to point out my hypocrisy. In all likelihood, Mathilde is only feeling the effects of giving birth. It's true that we have been more distant with each other recently, but I'm sure it's nothing but a phase that will pass. However, if hysteria should manifest itself, our woes are only beginning.” Arnold sighs theatrically. "Ah, women. I'd ask why any of us bother with them at all, but we both know the answer to that. Well, maybe you don't." He winks.  
  
"I wish you wouldn't talk about Mathilde like that," says Anton. "I certainly don't know her as well as you do, but - "  
  
"Of course you don't!" snaps Arnold. "Nobody knows her as well as I do! So I would think you should know to keep out of these matters."  
  
"Fine, fine. I'll say no more about it." It is impossible to follow Arnold’s train of thought when he is this drunk. "I'm glad that your son is well."  
  
"Yes, as am I."  
  
"When is he to be baptized?"  
  
Arnold looks confused. "Baptized?"  
  
"You know, the holy sacrament of baptism? Often considered to be somewhat important, even for Lutherans?"  
  
"Yes, yes," says Arnold distractedly. "It'll happen eventually. Don't tell me you of all people have decided to become dogmatic about such trivialities."  
  
"Of course not. I wouldn’t care even if you had him baptized in the blood of Christians."  
  
"And just what is that supposed to mean?" Arnold's eyes narrow and a warning flashes from them.  
  
"Nothing, nothing, just a joke, you know, because of your heritage." Anton feels like a fool. "I didn't mean anything by it, I swear."  
  
Arnold grunts. "You really do need to relax, Anton. Find something else to occupy your mind besides music. Knowledge of all the arts helps further one's mastery of music, too. For example, I've recently taken up painting. A man named Richard Gerstl is helping me with the technical side of things. He's about your age, I'd say. Now, this Richard, there's a man to whom you can talk openly and he’ll talk openly back to you. And he likes women, too."  
  
Anton throws up his hands, trying to show his exasperation. "Clearly my past is no secret to you. So why are you annoying me about it? What do you want from me?"  
  
To Anton's surprise, Arnold seems to be blushing. "Nothing. I'm just curious about it. I meant no offense."  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
"I meant no offense by my remarks, just as you meant nothing by your remarks about the Jews. Our accounts are even." Arnold offers his hand to shake. Anton takes it. Arnold's grasp is firm, muscular, and Anton feels his pulse increasing again.  
  
“Let’s speak no more of it,” says Arnold.  
  
"Yes, that would be for the best,” says Anton.  
  
  
  
**4\. 1918.**  
  
Anton is walking away from the concert hall, alone. He slows down when he sees Arnold rushing to catch up with him.  
  
"So," says Arnold, catching his breath as they walk on. "You heard the audience tonight? Such a racket!"  
  
"Yes," says Anton. "I think people are coming to concerts not to listen to the new music, but to make fun of it. I could swear that some of those people were there for the sole purpose of blowing over their door-keys in derision."  
  
Arnold chuckles. "Yes, an impressive deduction, Herr Webern. And it only took you, what, fifteen years to figure that out?"  
  
"Maybe I just don't share your gloomy view of people."  
  
"Maybe," says Arnold, "or maybe you just choose to drift around in blissful ignorance. Anyway, about those audiences. Our music deserves better. I have decided that the best solution would be the formation of a Society for Private Musical Performances. Only audiences who care about the music will be allowed to the concerts. No critics, and no jeering."  
  
"If you prohibit jeers," says Anton, thinking about it, "you'll have to prohibit applause as well. If everything is greeted with silence, then everything will be on even ground to be digested properly."  
  
"Yes!" says Arnold. "You're right. You see, it's this sort of insight which will make you an indispensable director of the new Society."  
  
Anton is moved and doesn't know what to say. He simply stares at Arnold.  
  
"You'd be paid, of course," Arnold hastens to add. "I'm well aware of your financial difficulties, not to be blunt about it, and I would value your help highly. So, what do you say? The idea is still in the early stages now, but it shouldn't be too hard to make it a reality with our combined experience."  
  
"I'll be glad to help," says Anton finally. "You know I would follow you anywhere." He immediately regrets saying it. His heart is suddenly racing in panic.  
  
"Yes, I know," says Arnold. "Thank you for agreeing to help." He gives Anton a strange look. "But I don't want these feelings of yours to come between us. Whatever happened, happened long ago. Besides, you're married now. You have the chance to truly settle down, to become ordinary. I can't understand exactly how you feel - "  
  
"Yes, you can!" Anton interrupts. He is as surprised as Arnold at his own outburst. "You can understand,” he repeats more calmly. "You know of your feelings for Mathilde - "  
  
"Don't talk about Mathilde like that," snaps Arnold. "You know nothing of our marriage. You know nothing of her. You know nothing of women."  
  
"I've never understood how you can speak of all women in such a general way. You've taught women, you've worked with them." Arnold grunts dismissively. Despite his annoyance, Anton is glad to realize that the subject has moved away from his own humiliating feelings. "Women are just as variegated and multifaceted as men. And there is no inferiority in their capacity for artistic expression. For example, this poet I met recently, Hildegard - "  
  
"You're trying to change the subject," says Arnold. "Deft, but not deft enough. Regardless, I'll concede your point about the fairer sex if you'll concede my similar point about God's chosen people."  
  
"I don't think the situations of women and of Jewry are precisely comparable,” says Anton, uncomfortable. "Besides, I don't see what point there is to concede."  
  
"Then I will consider it conceded," says Arnold with a grandiose gesture and a glare. "But to return to the point, all I want is for you to explain to me what exactly it is that you are feeling. Can't you do that for me?"  
  
The words "for me" make Anton's heart beat faster. He has something to tell Arnold, yes. But he does not quite know what it is. When he tries to catch hold of it, his mind skips away to repeat lines from Hildegard's poems. "I don't know what you mean," he says at last.  
  
"I'm not sure I do either," says Arnold. For a moment his face is complex, inscrutable. Then it returns in an instant to its familiar joviality. "Oh, this reminds me." Arnold stops walking and fishes in his overcoat pockets. Anton waits. The evening is crisp and breezy. Arnold pulls a notebook, bound in shiny leather, out of his pocket. He flips through it, showing Anton the neat, undersized manuscript paper that it contains. "I made you this notebook. I was going to give it to you to overcome your reluctance to join the new Society. No need for that, as it turned out, but you might as well have it regardless. It's not particularly elaborate, but you know how sentimental you can get. And I took the time to bind it well." Arnold thrusts the notebook forward and Anton takes it.  
  
"I'm trying to say," Arnold continues, "with this stupid gesture, I'm trying to say that I also care about you. No one is as understanding, no one is as important to me as you are. When it comes to music, I mean. When it comes to working on music." He coughs. "No doubt I might have thought of a more appropriately symbolic gift to show this, but there it is." Arnold begins to walk back toward the concert hall, not looking at Anton, who walks beside him.  
  
"Thank you," says Anton. He caresses the spine of the book. "This means more than you know."  
  
"Yes, well," says Arnold. "Anyway. Odd to think that the war is finally over, isn't it?"  
  
Anton hides the notebook in the pocket of his own overcoat. "I never quite understood what was going on with that whole business."  
  
“Few did. But in your case I know you never made any effort to understand," says Arnold. "Never mind. I'm having trouble putting together this oratorio, and I know that you'll have some helpful insight."  
  
They have reached the concert hall, its lights darkened already to save fuel. They sit on the steps and squint at the score fragments as Arnold talks through them, and Anton wants never to leave, though it is getting darker and harder to see by the minute.  
  
  
  
**5\. 1908.**  
  
Arnold's house is eerily quiet today. Usually, the voices of the little children playing, and Arnold's raucous voice yelling and singing and arguing and laughing, and the thuds on the floor as Arnold dances or rages about as energetically as the children, usually in the afternoon all these sounds ring out from the windows. But today, there is only the wind blowing down the empty street. Anton knocks again. After a moment, soft footsteps approach, and the front door creaks open. Arnold's expression is haggard and blank. He stares at Anton for a few seconds before recognition seems to cross his face. He nods without speaking, and continues to stare.  
  
"May I come in?" says Anton.  
  
"Yes, yes, of course," says Arnold in a hollow mockery of his usual enthusiasm. He ushers Anton into the unlit house. Anton goes to the sitting room, where he stands awkwardly, waiting for Arnold to take a seat first. Arnold is in the doorway, staring at nothing.  
  
"How are you today?" says Anton at last. Arnold does not answer. Anton coughs. He notices a grotesque picture hanging on the wall, a face staring at him with piercing eyes. "How is your painting coming along?" he says. Arnold's reaction is immediate. The expressionless mask that is his countenance falls away to reveal anguish.  
  
"Painting?" he says. "It was painting that brought all this about. No more painting. No, my canvases will remain as devoid of paint as I am devoid of joy." He is still not looking at Anton, but now he seems to be collapsing where he stands.  
  
"What are you talking about?" says Anton. He is sympathetic, but he has little patience for Arnold's melodramatic obtusity when not expressed in music.  
  
"Mathilde is gone," says Arnold. "She has run off, it seems, with Richard." He looks at Anton, and now Anton sees that the crazed sadness is not wholly genuine. Arnold's face is gaunt and agitated, but this expression seems willed rather than natural, and his eyes are still sharp.  
  
"Richard Gerstl? The painter? How strange," says Anton. "I'm sorry to hear it." He knows that Mathilde and Arnold have been drifting apart for quite some time now, and he is unsure how he is expected to react to this unsurprising news.  
  
"And to think I called him a friend," says Arnold, but his angst seems almost desultory.  
  
"When did they leave?" says Anton.  
  
"A few days ago, perhaps," says Arnold. "Mathilde, the children, and Richard, they are all on holiday together in Traunsee. I don't recall what explanation they're giving to avoid a scandal. They won't be able to avoid a scandal anyway, but I care even less about such things than you do. The point is, he has betrayed me and she is gone."  
  
"I'm sorry to hear it," says Anton again. Arnold nods.  
  
"The thing is, I can't truly say it has left me devastated," he says. "Not as devastated as I expected, in any case. I'm not sure what it is I am feeling, exactly."  
  
"Relief?" says Anton.  
  
Arnold smiles. "Perhaps that. You have me there. But it's more than that. There is no contentment in my heart. Instead there is a sort of yearning."  
  
"A yearning for her to return, you mean," says Anton. He notices that Arnold has stepped forward and is standing close to him in the dim room. Anton can feel his warm breath.  
  
"No, she means little to me now," says Arnold. "This betrayal has dashed to pieces the remnants of affection for her that remained." The mask of anguish has fallen, and his face is more natural, except that it is still agitated, ardent. He steps closer still.  
  
"Then I don't quite understand what you mean," says Anton, though he is beginning to think that he does understand, perhaps better than Arnold understands himself.  
  
"I think that it's not Mathilde that I'm thinking of, but her absence. I think that what I feel is the yearning of loneliness, the desire for connection, amplified by the absence of anyone here in this house other than myself. Myself, and you."  
  
Arnold falters, seems confused by his own words. Anton feels the weight of this moment crushing him. Never has a decision come quickly or easily to him, but right now this moment is all the time he has. He steps forward and kisses Arnold on the lips.  
  
Arnold pulls back immediately and stares at him. His expression shifts between different forms of bewilderment. Anton guesses that, more than the sudden manifestation of what has passed unspoken between them for months or for years, more than this it is Anton's boldness that is shocking. For him to take the role of initiator, to act, is unheard of in their relationship. Arnold's bewilderment fades into a sardonic smile, and he seems about to make some dismissive joke, but then, but then, he is returning the kiss, more urgently, with amateur aggression. Anton puts his arms around him. Arnold is nervous and awkward, repeatedly beginning to pull away and stopping himself. This is a side of him that Anton has never seen before. He realizes that he is the guide and the expert here, and he nearly smiles at the thought.  
  
They separate, and Anton looks into Arnold's eyes, which keep looking back at him and then darting away. Arnold is wearing a half-smile that is almost shy, and it fills Anton with a feeling he cannot place. "Well," says Arnold, but that is all.  
  
What Anton is feeling is something like passion or lust, but he has felt that before. It has also something to do with being suddenly so close to his mentor, whom he has venerated for years, and something to do with the strange and unexpected power he has over this same man. Yet there is something else here, something new. Anton’s analytical mind cannot name it, or will not. He sees Arnold’s bright, darting eyes, his nervous smile, and he feels it more than ever, and he gives up trying to know what it is, lets himself feel it, lets those eyes fill his heart and his life, and he pulls Arnold to him and kisses him again. This time, neither of them pull away.  
  
  
  
**6\. First Epigraph.**  
  
Through our open eyes light flows into the heart  
and ebbs, now joy, gently out again.  
In a loving glance there is more that swells up than ever entered.  
What happened, then, when the eye was illuminated?  
It must be a wonderful revelation:  
That one man's soul was emblazoned  
with such stars that brighten the night,  
with such a sun that awakens the day.  
O, the ocean of a glance and its waves of tears!  
  
\- from "Das Augenlicht", Hildegard Jone.  
  
  
  
**7\. Second Epigraph.**  
  
The heart's purple bird flies through the night.  
The eyes of moths, that flutter in the light,  
are before him, when they sway in the sun.  
And yet it is he who brought them to their destination.  
They often rest, those that soon rise up again  
to fly anew. But he settles at last  
on the branch of death, weary and heavy-winged,  
and they must quiver at the last glance.  
  
\- "Des Herzens Purpurvogel", Hildegard Jone.  
  
  
  
**8\. 1908.**  
  
They lie on the bed, both of them spent, and there is no sound in the house but their breathing. There have now been months of these illicit encounters. Anton liked to tally them in his head at the beginning, but now there have been so many that he has lost count. They never talk about them outside this room, and Anton must always leave Arnold's house before darkness falls. Still, there are precious moments like this one, when they lie together, almost touching or barely touching, and talk. The conversations begin unfocused and distracted, careering between subjects, but the two of them always end up returning to music, debating harmony and counterpoint with precision and smiling fervor. It is these recumbent conversations that Anton looks forward to the most. The love-making is good, of course. But the moments afterward, whether minutes or hours it does not matter, because as they talk time lies pulverized and scattered around them, these moments make Anton feel whole in a way he has never felt before.  
  
And it is time once again for one of these blissful conversations. But today is different.  
  
"Mathilde has been gone for months now," says Arnold.  
  
"Yes, that's true," says Anton, letting his eyes linger on Arnold's body as much as he dares. "It means you've been able to get more work done, if nothing else," he says. "You haven't shown me those new pantonal songs you're working on - for that matter, I haven't shown you this song cycle of mine…"  
  
"I've been thinking about her recently," says Arnold, and from his tone Anton knows that the subject is not going to change.  
  
"Oh," he says. "What about her?"  
  
Arnold has already gotten up and started pulling on his clothes, and Anton does the same, suddenly embarrassed. Dressed, he sits in a soft chair far from the bed and shifts uncomfortably as Arnold paces around the room.  
  
"I can't stop myself thinking of her," says Arnold. He looks ashamed. "I know what I've said about her, and I can see no rational reason why my feelings should have changed. But that's the way it is. My love for her refuses to be snuffed out."  
  
"That's quite all right," says Anton, worried. "Everyone knows that you can’t predict how much power rationality has in matters of the heart. There's a similar idea in that last string quartet of yours, in the last movement - "  
  
"And so I want to try to win her back," interrupts Arnold. "More than that, I must win her back. But I don't know where to begin. It's been months now, and there's Richard…"  
  
Anton’s thoughts come rapidly as Arnold continues to pace. Whatever is happening, it is happening so quickly, but it seems to him that there is only one thing he can do. "Are you sure about this?" he says. "Are you sure that you want Mathilde back?"  
  
"Yes," says Arnold without hesitation, without thinking.  
  
"Then I'll go talk to her myself," says Anton. "She'll listen to me. She knows I have no ulterior motive other than your happiness."  
  
"You can't possibly be serious," says Arnold, frowning.  
  
"I am," says Anton. He is sure of it.  
  
"But you realize that this little… what we have, what you have, here, it will be over. You'll be helping to end it."  
  
"Of course," says Anton. "But you want to be back together with Mathilde, and I'm confident that I'll be able to bring that about. I need nothing more than your happiness."  
  
Arnold's mouth opens and closes. It is as if he has something to tell Anton, but does not know what it is. At last, he lowers his head. "Then I can only thank you," he says shakily.  
  
"There's no need for that," says Anton, and he stands up and prepares to leave. "I'll make arrangements to go to Traunsee and see her as soon as I can." Arnold seems again to be on the verge of saying something, and so Anton leaves before either of them can think of what that something could be.  
  
  
  
**9\. 1924.**  
  
Arnold is walking away from the concert hall, alone. Anton rushes to catch up with him. Arnold barely acknowledges his presence, and maintains his slow pace down the twilit street as Anton walks beside him.  
  
"So, a public performance of _Erwartung_ at last," says Anton. "Has it really been fifteen whole years?" Arnold says nothing. Anton gesticulates awkwardly, trying to hide his worry. "It's an amazing piece. I was glad to hear it at last. And so was the rest of the audience, it seemed! Maybe they're catching up with us after all! Of course, _Erwartung_ is hardly innovative today. Though it hardly matters in this case. I certainly had a shiver down my spine at that moment of calm before she discovers the corpse, just as I thought I would when I read the score. And everyone there gasped in anticipation on the line 'not a blade of grass stirs itself.'"  
  
"Yes, it was a successful performance," mutters Arnold.  
  
"Arnold, what's wrong?" says Anton. "Is it Mathilde?"  
  
"No," says Arnold. "And yes. It's that Herr Busoni has just died, and so I was thinking of death, and so now I'm thinking of Mathilde. Some days I don't think of her at all. It's only been several months since she died, and yet already I am beginning to forget her. Is that strange?"  
  
"I don't know," says Anton, fidgeting.  
  
"But now, of course, I'm thinking about her again," says Arnold. "It has been… difficult. Little Görgi is taking it well, at least. Far better than I am. I loved her so much." Anton sees in the fading light that Arnold is on the verge of tears. He wants to hold him, but is afraid of being rebuked.  
  
"I'm sorry," says Anton.  
  
"I loved her so much!" says Arnold, and stops and grabs Anton by the shoulders and shakes him. Arnold is crying now. Anton doesn't know what to say. He wants to be somewhere else.  
  
"Sometimes I see her," says Arnold, his eyes narrow yet wild. "Sometimes I feel her presence. Perhaps the dead can still influence us, just as they could when they were alive. Perhaps when they think of us, we can feel their thoughts as they drift by. I wonder if she feels jealousy when I'm not thinking of her. I wonder if she always did. What do you think, Anton? Do you think it's her?"  
  
Anton swallows. "I… I'd rather talk about music, Arnold."  
  
Without another word, Arnold lets go of Anton's shoulders and begins walking back toward the concert hall. Anton follows him, filled with shame. The two men walk through the close, dark night, in silence.  
  
"What were you going to say about _Erwartung_?" says Arnold finally, watching the ground. His voice is cracked and weary.  
  
"Well," Anton says, and coughs. "Well, I was just going to say that, in light of all you have written since, the piece seems a bit indulgent. And for all its lack of thematic repetition, it's so full of sequences and ostinatos that it seems almost old-fashioned. The lack of a unifying theme, rather than freeing the music, constricts it." Arnold nods slightly. The lights of the concert hall are visible in the distance. "Which is exactly why," Anton continues, "your new twelve-tone method is so exciting. At last there is a way for a composition to sing unfettered by the old contrapuntal rules, while still emerging from a single starting point. Here - " Anton takes Arnold's notebook from his pocket.  
  
"You still have that?" says Arnold, suddenly attentive.  
  
"Of course I do," stammers Anton. "It… it's important to me. To write in. Anyway, look. I'm trying to write a piece with the method, and I've made a chart. You see, here's the row, and here are the transposed inversions."  
  
Arnold stops walking and holds up a hand. "Anton, you must remember. The twelve-tone method is nothing more than a means to an end. Rules and structures have no place in the manifestation of pure expression." Anton is glad to see a familiar glint return to Arnold's eyes. "This chart is useless until you have used it to write music that expresses thought and feeling."  
  
"Yes," says Anton. "Of course. This is only a beginning."  
  
"Well then, I wish you luck," says Arnold. They have reached the concert hall. A few groups of stragglers still stand chatting in the light outside it. "Anton, you should know," says Arnold, “that with Busoni's death, the Prussian Academy is left in need of a director of composition. I've been told that I am being considered for the position, and so I may soon be moving to Berlin."  
  
"Excellent news," says Anton. He is not sure why he feels a pain in his chest.  
  
“If I do, the two of us will doubtless remain in contact."  
  
The words "the two of us" make Anton's heart beat faster. He has to tell Arnold something. He does not know what it is he has to tell him. And then, like the final note of a piece revealing itself, the elusive feeling is utterly clear. "Arnold," he begins.  
  
"Yes?" says Arnold. His eyes are tired and sad, but how they shine! Anton is afraid of that shine fading. That final note seems wrong now. Better to go back and rewrite the piece from the start. Better still to discard it entirely.  
  
"Nothing," says Anton. He is the broken heroine of _Erwartung_.  
  
Arnold’s expression is inscrutable. "Very well," he says. "It's late now. I should go home, as should you."  
  
"Yes," says Anton. "If you need to talk, about Mathilde, or about anything else, I'll be here.”  
  
Arnold nods, his smile sad, and he turns his back.  
  
  
  
**10\. 1911.**  
  
"I've been thinking about what Herr Mahler said, about how complex structures may derive from a single cause."  
  
"Mahler has been weighing heavily on all of our minds," says Arnold, distracted. "He was taken from us too soon."  
  
"Yes, and it's made me think more about his music," says Anton. "Those symphonies are so long and intricate that they would seem to contradict his desire for unity. You might be able to trace the germinal motif's presence through twelve measures of such a piece, but go any further and the unity is lost, unless it is maintained through generalizations, through lack of attention to detail."  
  
"Anton, you need to relax," says Arnold. "It's a beautiful day. Why spoil it by talking about music?”  
  
Anton is about to argue, but instead he says, ”Yes, I suppose you're right.”  
  
"Still," says Arnold, stroking his chin, “you have a point. The florid excesses of someone like Mahler have little place in the world of today. A music that is concise, a music that does nothing but express, that is the music that the world needs. Enough of these garish displays balanced precariously atop the towers of decadent motivic systems.”  
  
"But you can't discard motivic unity, you can't discard structures and systems entirely."  
  
"And why not? Why should such a simple task be impossible?”  
  
"I meant," says Anton, " _you_ can't do it. I've seen enough of your scores to know that."  
  
Arnold laughs. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps we will have to strive together toward a distillation of music into its essence, whether that essence lies in the heart or the head, or whether those are simply the same thing." He clears his throat. "Anyway, since it is such a beautiful day… How fares your recent marriage? Have you finally discovered the ability to lead a normal love life?"  
  
Anton pretends not to hear the question. "To strive together, yes," he says, entranced by an almost-forgotten memory, by a diaphanous ghost not yet faded from existence. "To find a new way forward. To cut down the language of music until we are able to speak yearning with no more than an ascending minor sixth." He finds that his voice has fallen to a whisper, he finds that he has stepped close to Arnold. They stand there for a second and it feels as though it is longer than a second but then Arnold steps back and it is gone.  
  
"Let's speak no more of this," says Arnold.  
  
"Yes, that would be for the best," says Anton.  
  
  
  
**11\. 1904.**  
  
"Arnold, may I introduce Herr Anton von Webern." Frau Doktor Schwarzwald has the same command over her salon as she does over her girls' classrooms. The preponderance of great people gathered here is enough to send bolder men than Anton shrinking into the corner, but when the hostess beckons one over, one must obey. "Herr von Webern is another student of Herr Adler at the University," says Frau Doktor. "He has been thinking of joining your composition course here. Herr von Webern, this is Herr Arnold Schönberg." Frau Doktor has soon swept off to talk to the architect Herr Loos, leaving the two composers by themselves.  
  
Schönberg is a stocky, balding man, slightly shorter and slightly older than Anton himself. He hardly seems the firebrand who wrote _Verklärte Nacht_ , unless in the eyes, which look directly at Anton with a deep, piercing intensity. Schönberg says nothing. Anton is nervous. He attempts a joke, nodding toward Frau Doktor. "Did you know that our illustrious host's maiden name was Nussbaum? Imagine, a Jew at the center of society, even with Lueger as our mayor!"  
  
Schönberg is silent for several seconds, his face twitching. "My family are Jews, you know," he says at last. His voice is casual, but his eyes narrow for just a moment, and a warning flashes from them.  
  
"My apologies, Herr Schönberg," says Anton, feeling foolish. "I didn't know. But yourself…?"  
  
"As for myself, I am now a Lutheran. But it hardly matters. We're both Austrians, are we not? Let's talk about music. You study with Herr Adler?"  
  
"Yes," says Anton hastily, "but I'm more interested in your music, Herr Schönberg. What struck me most in _Verklärte Nacht_ \- "  
  
Schönberg raises his hand. "I have no time for sycophancy. While I'm pleased that the work struck you, if you are to be my student your praise means as little to me as the bourgeoisie blowing over their keys."  
  
Anton takes a deep breath and rises to the challenge. "While I do find the piece successful, it wasn't praise I had to offer. Rather, I wished to say that the great fault I found with _Verklärte Nacht_ was that it was too programmatic. Attaching concrete narrative meaning to the music aligns the piece too strongly with the past - it recalls the idiotic Brahms-Liszt dispute, as if Brahms were not just as much of a progressive as yourself! Brahms knew that the way forward lay in the negation of narrative, he knew that time does not flow in only one direction."  
  
Anton stops, embarrassed to be talking so much, but Schönberg nods at him to go on, his face blank. "Anyway," Anton continues, "basing the piece on such a simplistic narrative poem, pretty as it may be on the surface, can only detract from the music. It should be a piece about the unending longing for things out of reach, about how the heart and the mind are inseparable and equally unpredictable, about the end of the world passing by in the distance! But then we see that it's only about this sordid little love affair. And in that case, what use is it? That's all I wanted to say. That, and, also that the change to D major halfway through is reinforced disproportionately. And, well… My apologies…" He trails off.  
  
Schönberg is again silent for several seconds. His face twitches, then breaks into a smile. Before Anton can say anything, the teacher is laughing, in great bursts. Now his eyes are elfin and shining. "You're wrong, of course," says Schönberg, clapping Anton on the shoulder. Anton has never been prone to smiling, but he finds himself grinning back. "At least about that last part, about the D major," Schönberg continues. "You're almost right, but you're wrong. And I'll show you why. My friend, I'm glad we met. I think this can only end well."  
  
The salon is crowded, but only now does Anton feel that he is not alone.  
  
  
  
**12\. September 15, 1945.**  
  
The night is almost cold and almost silent. White snow sits on the peaks above the town, but at this hour the mountains are only vast dark shapes in the mist. A dog barks somewhere, then it waits, then it barks again.  
  
Anton steps clumsily into the yard. The moon was radiant yesterday, but today it is obscured by clouds. His son-in-law Benno, the smuggler, is soon to be arrested. His son Peter, the soldier, is dead. The Nazis have truly been defeated. Anton is too old now to care what will happen next. The dream of a German art is over. But it hardly matters. It was only ever an incarnation of a more fundamental vision. Art itself cannot die, even when the artist reaches for but cannot grasp it.  
  
Anton needs to smoke. He takes out the cigar. The flame of his lighter is, for the brief moment of its existence, by far the brightest thing in the night. He gazes at the dull glow of the cigar, and then back at the surrounding darkness. He tries to let the cool air relax him, but his head is too full of roiling thoughts and memories. These memories try to perform an intricate dance, but they are always colliding with each other. Anton tries to put them in some sort of order to prevent these collisions. This order need not be the linear order of time. Their chronology is insignificant. If it were significant, then why would mistakes recur, why would change be so arbitrary and short-lived? No, no ordering of events can be more correct than any other. All that matters is the fact of ordering.  
  
Something jostles Anton. It is a soldier coming from somewhere in the yard. His silhouette has already drawn a pistol. These Americans. Anton has become well acquainted with their bluster and bravado since the beginning of the occupation. He can imagine Arnold's frustration, having to live in America. He can imagine Arnold's face. He can imagine Arnold's joy when he sees little Görgi again, safely hidden from the Nazis in Anton's house back in Vienna. When Anton imagines Arnold smiling, his dark gaze drowns in light. Anton cannot put these feelings into words, but he can certainly put them into music. It is about time to begin writing a new piece.  
  
The soldier is speaking. Anton is staring off into the invisible light. Anton's English is limited, but he hears the soldier say something about "time". Pretentious idiot. How can he presume to know anything about time? Hildegard once said to him that music predominantly has to do with time, but that cannot be true. Anton knows music, but he knows nothing about time. If music and time have anything to do with each other, their relationship can only be a conflict, a war which music will win. Time flows smoothly and unevenly, curving around events in its path. But when one arranges notes in regular patterns, forming neat rows and motifs and palindromes, time is pulverized and replaced with something different, something clearer and yet more tangled. Gone the petty doctrine of cause and effect. Such simplistic relations have no place in the singular manifestation of pure expression.  
  
The soldier is speaking again. The dog is barking again. Dead leaves are dancing in the wind. If all the complex structures of nature are derived from a single germinal cause, then this cause must be uniquely powerful. As powerful as this turmoil in his heart.  
  
A new piece, then. No words this time, not those of Hildegard, not those of anyone else, no voice. A larger ensemble. An ascending minor sixth at the beginning. And again at the end. The interval at the end of the row the same as the one at the beginning, but of course unfathomably different. What will Arnold think? Will he realize what it is about? So, an ascending minor sixth at the beginning. A good start. He should write it down.  
  
Anton begins to smile in the dark. He always carries Arnold's notebook with him. He reaches into his pocket to take it out, as he turns toward where the dawn will be.  
  
He can hear the sun approaching.


End file.
